


how it feels to take a fall

by chailattemusings



Series: siren songs [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, ableist language cw, death mention cw, murder mention cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailattemusings/pseuds/chailattemusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith is hunting for prey on the beach and instead finds a lone selkie singing on the rocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how it feels to take a fall

Summer was amazing for prey.

There were tourists all over the city, none of whom knew anything about the local fae. Some of them were quick on the update, but far too many liked to stay out just a couple hours too late, and drink just a few too many beers, and lose their inhibitions just enough that Smith could swoop in and take them.

The beach was a surprisingly good location, too. The city didn't really have a proper beach, but it had a lake and some shallow sand and that was enough for the romantic saps who liked to go out late at night with a six pack and try to find their souls among the alcohol and waves. The lakefront was next to a boardwalk with easy parking. Smith drove into the lot and parked precisely on the painted dividers, taking up two parking spots at once. On a crowded night in the city, he hoped to piss some asshole off enough to get a ding in his freshly stolen car. Nothing like an excuse besides his own pleasure to rip someone to shreds.

Smith got out of the new-to-him but used-by-an-unlucky-prick car, and surveyed the lakefront. There weren't many out at one in the morning, too busy clubbing in the bars and parading drunk down the sidewalks, but the lake water washing across the sands soothed Smith like the hum of a car engine. He wanted to be relaxed when he found his prey tonight.

People liked playing music on the beach, either blasting it from mini stereos or bopping silently to their headphones. On the far end of the beach, Smith could see a fire, and a group of college students with some tune blasting under the background of their shouts. The students were always easy to pick off, but only by themselves. The groups tended to stick together like glue unless they'd been doing some particularly dangerous drugs and were too out of it to think about how many people they'd started and ended the night with.

Smith turned in the opposite direction. As fun as it might be to worm his way into the group, he wasn't looking for free alcohol and easy smiles tonight.

The south end of the beach was quieter. There were a few couples whispering softly to one another, and a jogger with their dog out for a late run. Smith let them be; romantic twats were hard to reason with, and he didn't want the guilt of being blamed for a runaway mutt.

Something trailed under the sounds of the water lapping at the shore. Smith stopped, tilting his head. It didn't have the lilt of the guitar pricks who lingered on the sand, or the hiss of a stereo. He started walking again, listening closer, catching high tones and a type of scratching that, the more he walked, irritated his brain.

It sounded like cats _dying_. It was a wail, the echo slowly overpowering the rush of the water, and Smith winced. Someone was torturing an animal, probably. He moved to turn away, perhaps to try his luck with the college kids, and stopped.

The faintest whiff of magic twirled over his ears, around his neck. Smith could feel it pulling, trying to beckon him.

But the dying cat noise just made him flinch again. It was a lure, all right, something concocted by a fae trying to catch themselves some human prey. Smith used luring magic himself, reveled in it, but hearing it come from someone else was like nails on a chalkboard or the burn of melted rubber in his nose.

He'd come this far, though. He could at least have a laugh at whoever thought that wailing was going to attract anything.

Smith pursued the noise, ignoring the way it made his skin crawl, and came to the last edges of the beach, the place where the sand met jagged rocks and the water hit nothing but the boulders and concrete at the edge of the roads curving around the lake.

Perched on one of the boulders, wrapped in something dark and heavy, their small head peeking out, was a selkie.

Smith had only ever heard of them. The city was too far from the ocean to get any selkies that hadn't already cast off their skin, and the selkies who abandoned being fae were almost indistinguishable from humans.

This one was doing the awful wailing, like broken bagpipes that had been stuffed down a garbage disposal. Smith resisted the urge to cover his ears, looking the selkie up and down. Their skin had been wrapped around them, but they were in human form, lips moving in sync with the wails. “Oi!” he called, shouting loud enough to be heard over the water and the screeching. “Who's killing cats out here, eh?!”

The selkie stopped and blinked, turning to look at Smith. With a clearer view, Smith could see his brown hair, his pale skin. He was frowning, and drew his selkie skin closer.

“I mean,” Smith continued, watching the boy's frown deepen, “you'd have to be completely tone deaf to spout up a tune like that.” He tilted his head back, indicating the beach behind him. “If you think you're going to lure anyone like that, I'll tell you give up now.”

The selkie stood on his rock, still short even when at his full height. He glared down at Smith. “Are you a _moron_?”

Smith's eyebrows went up, and he laughed. “Takes one to know one, eh, mate?”

“No, really.” The selkie put his hands on his hips, the selkie skin billowing out behind him. “Siren songs don't work on kelpies, you idiot. If you don't want your ears to bleed out, I'd suggest you take your faux leather jacket and your cheap sunglasses elsewhere.”

A siren song. So _that's_ what that was. Smith tilted his newly insulted sunglasses down from his hair, covering his eyes. No wonder the selkie seemed to be wailing; Smith was immune to siren calls.

“Still sounds like dying animals, mate,” Smith said, grinning. He tucked his hands into the pocket of his jacket, fiddling with his keys and the pack of cigarettes he kept tucked in there. “Do you mean to make the local rats drown on the rocks? Because I'm sure they'd love that screeching song you've got going on there.”

The selkie rolled his eyes and sat down, pulling his skin up again. “Bugger off,” he said. “Don't you have innocent victims to kill?”

He _did_ , but the little selkie was the biggest laugh Smith had had in a while. “Maybe I'd rather listen to your off-key singing.”

The selkie didn't respond, opening his mouth to sing again.

“My name's Smith!”

The interruption caught the selkie off guard, and he looked at Smith again. 'Smith' wasn't Smith's actual name, but you had to have something to give people to make them trust you, and handing out true names left and right wasn't good business practice for a kelpie who made a habit out of drowning people. But it had a weight to it all the same, and Smith could feel the unspoken magic between them when he gave the word to the selkie.

“Smith,” the selkie said. He glanced at the water and the rocks, and back up. “I'm Trott.”

“Well, then, Trottsky!” Smith saluted with two fingers and spun on his heel. “Have fun murdering the eardrums of anyone who walks by!”

Trott shouted something indignant, but Smith was already focusing on the sound of the waves, and the faint beat of the stereo coming from the group of college kids.

 

* * *

 

He came back to the boardwalk the next day and found Trott again, sitting on the rocks.

Smith's first question was how a selkie who still wore his skin had ended up in the middle of a city, and his second question was why he bothered to use a siren song on a lake. The only boats for him to draw to shore were too small to crash and cause more damage than maybe a broken bone for unsuspecting passengers, and there weren't other selkies to be lured in by the music.

The most important question, though, was _why_ in the world had Smith come back?

He ignored the thought, parking on the boardwalk again and stepping onto the sidewalk, walking down the length of the road that ran next to the beach. At the edges, on the rocks, was Trott, singing low enough that it couldn't be heard well over the splashing of the waves. Smith could still hear it, though, and it was as grating as it had been the first time.

Smith braced himself and walked as close as he dared, his toes peeking over where the sidewalk dropped ninety degrees to a concrete wall. “Still killing cats?” he called, grinning.

Trott turned and scowled. “What the hell do you want?”

“I'm bored,” Smith said, though that wasn't entirely true. The clubs were open and there were plenty of people in the streets. But he'd caught prey recently and it was both bad for his reputation and for his attention span to catch too many victims in too short a time. Normally he would take the time to go to the arcades and spend more money than most adults would on retro games, breaking the “No Smoking” rule until the manager kicked him out. But he'd thought of the lonely selkie at the lake and found himself driving toward it without really realizing until he’d gotten there.

Trott ignored him, settling back on the rock. He sang, low under his breath. Smith winced; it was like tires screeching from years of age and misuse rather than the satisfying cry they made when skidding on pavement. He tucked his hands into his pockets to keep them off his ears. “Won't attract many victims like that!” he called.

Pausing to glare, Trott said, “Fuck off!” and kept singing.

He did catch some victims, though. What he planned to _do_ with them, Smith couldn't tell, but they came wandering from the beach proper to listen to him sing. The music ran lengthy claws down Smith's spine and made it hard to focus, and yet the humans who wandered by were enraptured. They treated Trott like some sort of famous rock star, not caring as to the sand that fell in their trousers or the sharp rocks at their feet. Only when Trott stopped singing to throw daggers from his eyes at Smith did they shake themselves free, thank him for the song, and make their way back down the beach.

A few of them tried to climb up the rocks, but Smith shouted at Trott about his singing prowess and interrupted his song before they got very far. Part of Smith wanted to leave him alone, to spy and see where Trott intended to take his victims, but the other part had far too much fun laughing when Trott shot him seething glares.

It took a long time to break Trott, longer than most people. Smith respected that kind of resilience. But three days of lounging at the beach, his urge to hunt prey again nagging at Smith's mind, and he was finally rewarded for his patience.

Yet another human, a young man, walked to the rocks where Trott sat and started to listen to his song. Smith didn't even let him fall to the sand. “Oi!” he said, “You might wanna reconsider sitting down for a free concert, seeing as you can't even get a refund!”

Trott stopped his song and the man blinked, halfway to the ground. “Oh, er,” he said, glancing at Trott. “Sorry, I think I . . . have something to do.” He stepped back and wandered awkwardly away, glancing back over his shoulder a couple times.

“Damn it!” Trott kicked the selkie skin away from his legs and stood, baring his teeth at Smith. “Why do you keep _doing_ that?”

Smith grinned and shrugged. “For shits and giggles? City's boring as fuck when you've lived here a while, mate.”

“Cut it the fuck out!” Trott kicked a small rock atop his boulder perch, watching it fall to the waters below. He narrowed his eyes, fists clenching at his sides. “ _You_ lure people. Surely you've got to know what it's like when your needs aren't met.”

“Needs?” Smith laughed, leaning on the side of his car with his hip. “Mate, I haven't got any needs. Only thing I've got is _desire_ , and I can indulge as much or as little as I like.” That was true enough, if Smith used the definitions of 'needs' and 'desires' very loosely. The thought of catching more prey niggled at the back of his mind.

“Well stop fucking _my_ needs up!” Trott growled, pulling Smith from his thoughts. He stamped a foot on his boulder. “How am I supposed to fuck anyone with you denouncing my siren song all fucking day?”

Smith's eyes lit up, and he tilted his sunglasses down his face with two fingers. “You wanna fuck somebody?”

Trott leaned back. “Not _you_ , for damn sure. My siren song doesn't work with you blathering at me.”

Smith bumped his hip on the car, pushing off and sauntering his way to the sidewalk's edge, where the wall met the boulders and the splashing waves. “Mate,” he said slowly, meeting Trott's eyes. “There's plenty of ways to fuck someone without wasting your time singing on the rocks. I like the beach, too, but the clubs are where it's _really_ at. Too many young people with enough cash to waste on booze but not enough to turn down a one night stand that'll make them feel better about themselves.”

Trott wrinkled his nose. “You pick people up at clubs? That's not . . .” he stopped and swallowed.

“What, traditional?” Smith waved a hand dismissively, and tilted his sunglasses back up. “Fuck tradition, where the hell do you come from? You're in the city, mate, get with the times.”

Trott flushed red, shoulders hunching up, and he forced them back down. Puffing his chest out, he said, “I don't _want_ to meet people in clubs. Too noisy, full of brats.”

Smith gestured to himself. “I'll be there.”

“Exactly.”

Smith frowned, and Trott snorted.

“Try it,” Smith offered, patting the hood of his car. “You might like it. Lots of easy catches, you won't even need that screechy song of yours.”

Trott cocked his hip and crossed his arms, looking the car up and down. It screamed of a person who could waste the money to buy something so obnoxious– or someone with the smarts to steal it– and would only attract the easily impressed and the car fanatics. Smith stepped back and rubbed a hand down the edge of the open window. “Just once,” he said. “Try it. If you hate it, I'll leave you to your blathering on the beach.”

That caught his attention. Trott's eyes narrowed. “You swear?”

“I swear,” Smith said, raising a hand and closing his eyes, “that if you get any good arse tonight, I'll fuck off from your precious rocks and that ugly siren song of yours.”

There was some scraping noises and the flap of something heavy. A hand smacked into his open palm, and Smith saw Trott's hand in his own, gripping it tight, Trott now standing on the sidewalk. “Deal,” Trott said through his teeth. “Let's fucking _go_.”

 

* * *

 

There were over a dozen clubs in the city, and they were all the same. They attracted mostly twenty somethings with enough bucks for a few drinks and enough inner ear damage to withstand the music. Purple and green lights lit up every room and any white clothing glowed, spots of brightness among the trend of dark fashion that matched the lights.

Smith fit in about as well as a horse,  but he popped his collar and put on his sunglasses, and the magic of indirect presence made sure no one gave him funny looks. His charm made up for the rest, sauntering past the door and smiling at anyone who looked at him for more than a few seconds.

Trott shifted uncomfortably at his side. He wore a button down and jeans, the clothes he'd had on under his selkie skin, which was now tucked away in a messenger bag at his side. His hair had been messily combed, and his eyes darted back and forth over the club floor.

“Where _are_ you from,” Smith muttered, striding in. Trott followed with quick steps, his white sneakers glowing in the UV lights.

The bass of the tuneless music pulsed under their feet, bodies gyrating against one another on the dance floor. People leaned over tables spread around the edges of the room, everything colored black and red so as not to look disruptive. Smith flashed his smile at a girl peering above her cocktail, and she giggled, waving him over.

Putting a hand on Trott's shoulder, Smith said, “Watch,” and made his way to the girl's table.

She had dark skin and long eyelashes, fluttering them at Smith. When he got to her table, she said, “You look lost. Aren't you a little old to be here?”

Smith glanced around and caught sight of an older, married couple sitting at the bar, their hands in each other's trouser pockets. “They aren't,” Smith said, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “I'd wager you're a little young, though.” He put both hands on the table, leaning down and putting a bit of his magic into his eyes, half lidded and asking the girl to put all of her attention on him. It seeped into his hair like cheap gel and dripped down his neck, coming alive the longer the girl looked at him.

She stuck out her tongue and smiled. “I was just curious about where you got those sunglasses. I saw them in a magazine once, I thought they were for rich snobs.”

Smith tapped a finger on the side of his glasses. He'd taken them from the back of a duped old man's van. “They are,” he said, and leaned closer.

“Hey!”

Smith jumped, and the girl blinked, the trance broken. Smith turned and saw Trott next to him, grinning inappropriately. “Smith,” he said, like they'd been friends for years. “Why don't we pick up a few drinks?”

“Uh, sure.” Smith smiled at the girl again, though it didn't hold the same power without the spell. Her lips twitched but she didn't return the expression, waving awkwardly and hiding behind her drink.

“What the fuck,” he growled, glaring at Trott. “I almost had her. Do you know how hard young girls are? They're skittish about every bloke that crosses their path!”

“You were gonna eat her,” Trott pointed out, leading them away from the tables and towards the bar. “Besides, we're not here for you to take some pretty thing and pull them into your car. You promised you'd leave me alone if I could find someone here.”

Smith rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Fine, whatever.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and brought his shoulders up, scanning the crowd with a new idea in mind.

Trott was attractive, Smith would give him that. He'd been entirely serious in implying they could sleep together. But Trott wanted a human; for whatever reason, his precious ego needed someone to respond to his siren song. It would be easy to find someone willing to go home with him. The problem was in not knowing Trott's taste.

His eyes drifted over to Trott. “Do you care about anything?” Smith asked, sighing. “Appearance, gender, attitude?”

Trott stopped them at the edges of the bar and pursed his lips. “Not really,” he said, eyes flicking over the dance floor. “Everyone looks pretty eager to get their rocks off.”

Smith waved at the bartender and bought them both a Bay Breeze, something slightly sweet to knock the edge off. “Here,” he said, handing Trott his drink and slipping the money to the bartender. On a good night, he would bat his eyelashes and flirt his way to a free drink, but it was harder to make that trick work when buying multiples, and Trott had already put a downer on Smith's fun.

Trott eyed the drink warily, and shrugged, taking a sip. He made a face and held the glass back from his face. “I remember why I drink sparingly,” he said, shooting Smith a glare. “You come to these places all the time?”

“Whenever I need a fun night, mate.” Smith slurped down a few sips of his own drink, letting the alcohol slide easily down his throat.

“Right.” Trott took another careful sip, surveying the club. No one seemed to jump out at him, and Smith let them stand for another couple minutes while Trott looked. After too long, though, standing by the bar looked awkward, and Smith grabbed Trott's arm, dragging him to a table.

“Look,” he said, setting his half empty drink down, “if you're going to do this, fucking _do_ it. I know you're used to using that special song of yours that could probably turn a fish upside down, but this is the city. It doesn't work like whatever ocean bay you came from.”

Something flashed in Trott's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. He took a sip from his drink and said, “You want me to just _walk_ out there?”

Smith threw his hands up. “Yes! Come on, let's fucking dance already!”

Trott opened his mouth to protest but Smith snatched his hand and led them to the dance floor, their drinks forgotten on the table. Unfinished drinks left alone would get drugged by some creep hoping to steal a girl home soon enough, and Smith tried not to be annoyed about the wasted cash, dragging Trott to the edge of the dance floor and tossing him onto it. “Move, mate,” Smith said, picking up the beat that pounded under their feet and shivered over his skin.

Trott stared blankly at him, shoved back by a couple bodies, and slowly started to move. He held his hands up and shuffled awkwardly, eyebrows pinched together. Smith suppressed the urge to yell at him, turning on his heels and letting the music pound through him. It was like water; it had an ebb and flow, a rhythm of patterns that swirled around him and caught Smith in the magic of the club. Long days and tired lives were forgotten under the heavy beat, and it was only a few moments before he lost himself to it, thinking only of his swaying hips and the gyrating bodies around him.

Someone bumped into his front. Smith opened his eyes to see Trott looking up at him, eyes wide and startled. Smith grinned and grabbed Trott's hips before he could pull away, pressing them flush against one another and grinding his crotch on Trott's upper thigh.

It had only been a few days since Smith had taken prey, and the push of his cock on Trott's leg, rubbing the hard denim of his jeans, felt sinfully good. Smith growled and put both hands on Trott's ass, biting his lip and grinding hard enough to send sparks of heat to the base of his belly.

Trott's arms flailed and he started to protest. Smith ground against him again, bringing his leg forward, and he felt Trott's own cock in his pants, half hard already. “Been too long, eh?” Smith said, his voice easily drowned out by the music.

Trott glared at him. Smith flexed his fingers on Trott's ass and bent down, opening his mouth to give a long, slow lick up Trott's neck. Trott gasped and any hint of objection was lost. He tilted his neck back and Smith gleefully took the invitation, bringing him even closer and spreading his teeth wide to drag over the supple skin.

The fastest way to get things done was to do them yourself, after all.

Trott grasped the back of his leather jacket, pulling hard. Smith thrust his crotch up against Trott's stomach, forcing his shirt up, and slid a hand down his thigh. It was easy to pick up Trott's leg and hitch it around his hip, opening his stance up and giving Smith more room to grind them together. Trott gasped next to his ear and tucked his head against Smith's collarbone.

“Fuck, Smith–” Trott hissed, pushing hard against him, fingers digging into his back through the jacket. “I t-told you, I don't–”

“What?” Smith huffed over his neck, licking across his pulse and finding the vague taste of seawater. Of course. He grinned and leaned back, meeting Trott's eyes in the low, pulsing rhythm of the purple-stained lights. “You wanted to get laid. You don't need your shit siren song to do that.”

Trott frowned, and Smith launched forward, their lips crashing together. He nearly sent them tumbling, and as it was Trott's leg didn't stay around his hip, planting firm on the ground to balance them. He bit hard over Trott's bottom lip, dragging it out and running his tongue over it. Trott growled and moved his hands to Smith's chest to shove him back. He didn't get very far; Smith licked his mouth again and palmed his crotch at the same time.

Trott's breath hitched, and Smith took the chance to push harder, running his tongue over Trott's. He cupped Trott's dick, humming at how hard it was under his hand. He couldn't feel anything well enough through the jeans, though. Smith licked over Trott's mouth one more time and pulled back, smiling again. “A shame we can't fuck right here on the dance floor.”

It was hard to tell what Trott's skin looked like under the glow of the club, but Smith was fairly sure he'd flushed red. He clamped his lips tight and couldn't resist poking his tongue out, licking off the lingering taste of Smith. “You're an arse,” he said, sneering.

“But a damn sexy one, yeah?” Smith grabbed his hand and pulled Trott away, through the throng of bodies and down the club's main floor, towards the door.

Just before they reached the door, Trott dug his heels in and yanked them to a stop.

“Mate, what gives–”

“You're gonna eat me,” Trott accused, eyes narrowed.

Smith flashed his teeth. “Only in the best sense of the word, mate.”

Trott frowned deeper, tugging at his hand, but Smith kept a death grip. “I know how kelpies work. You lure in some pretty thing, maybe fuck them, and devour them in a dark alley.”

Smith suppressed the groan coming up his throat. He leaned his head back and sighed, glad for the dark tint of his sunglasses that kept the club lights above from blinding him. “Firstly,” he said, drawing the word out, “you're a faerie and fae taste like shit. Secondly, my charm works about as well on you as your song does on me, as in, it's complete bullshit and I couldn't lure you with magic if I tried.” He lowered his head and met Trott's eyes. “You can leave whenever the hell you want, and yet you're still _here_.”

Trott jerked back, his jaw locked. His fingers tightened in Smith's grip, and he ducked his head.

“Stop moping and let's _go_ ,” Smith whined, pulling. Trott sighed and went, letting himself be tugged to the door and led out of the club.

The shock of going from loud music and dim lighting to the bright streetlights and quiet night had always shocked Smith at first, but that's where the sunglasses helped. When everything was put under the same shader, the shock of change didn't rock down his spine the way it had when he'd first moved to the city and it seemed that every building was lit up differently.

Smith guided them past the line of too-young adults waiting to get inside, to where he'd parked. Trott stumbled behind him, but his steps picked up quickly, and he snatched his hand back from Smith's greedy fingers.

“Not a romantic?” Smith asked over his shoulder.

“Sod off,” Trott shot at him.

Thankfully, his words didn't match his actions. Smith kept a slow, leisurely pace, putting his freed hands in the back pockets of his skinny jeans. It was more for show because the pockets weren't big enough to fit anything in them,  but he could feel Trott's stare and would bet a twenty that his eyes were on where Smith's hands had settled in his pockets, over his ass.

He'd parked at the end of the block out of habit. It was easier to lead prey if they didn't have to walk too far. He'd aquired many a ticket for finding spots where he shouldn't be, but then the cars never belonged to him anyway. Somewhere in the city's council offices was a distraught cubicle worker trying their best to figure out how so many ticketed citizens claimed not to know about their infractions.

“Are we gonna do it in the backseat?” Trott asked, raising an eyebrow. The convertible didn't have much room, built mostly for show, and even Smith had to admit that not having enough leg room in the front, let alone the back, was irritating.

“Please,” he said, opening the front and waiting for Trott to get in on the passenger side. He took his keys from his pocket, flipping them over his fingers, and slid them effortlessly into the ignition. It was the same set of keys he'd had ever since setting out on his own for the city; every car was his and they all responded to his kelpie's bridle.

They pulled off the sidewalk, and Smith said, “I have a little class. We can pick out a cheap motel.”

Trott wrinkled his nose. “That's ‘class’?”

Smith grinned, teeth flashing in the lights of the car's dashboard. “It is when you're someone like me.”

Rolling his eyes and settling in the passenger's seat, arms crossed, Trott said, “Whatever floats your boat, sunshine.”

The nickname caught him off guard, and Smith burst out laughing. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and he looked at Trott, trusting the roads more than enough to keep him on course. “I don't think I've ever had someone call me a name that didn't involve a curse word.”

Trott glanced at him and his lips tipped up in the barest hint of a smile.

Motels were abundant in the city. Smith found several on his way down the streets, and pulled into the first one that looked like it wouldn't have drug dealers. He could punch a person or two if need be, but drug dealers tended to carry the scent of whatever they dealt in, and Smith didn't want distractions.

Trott had kicked his legs up on the dashboard. He lowered them as they pulled into the motel, though his arms stayed crossed. “We're staying here?”

“Unless you'd like to fuck in the road?” Smith offered, his hand on the door handle. He shrugged. “I mean, I wouldn't judge you if you did, everyone's got their kinks–”

Trott snorted and shoved him in the shoulder. “Come on, _sunshine_ , let's go.”

Smith paid for the room with a credit card he'd swiped from the same guy who gave him the sunglasses. People with money like him tended not to notice an increase in bills right away, especially if Smith used the card sparingly. He took the key and led Trott up to the second and highest floor of the low building, swiping the key card.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You can still back out,” he said, looking Trott in the eyes. “My kelpie magic won't keep you here.”

Trott's hand blanketed his own and their lips crashed together. Trott forced Smith to turn the handle and shoved him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. Hands grasped at Smith's waist and forced their way under his t-shirt, grabbing at the exposed flesh.

Smith chuckled into Trott's mouth, opening to him and grabbing the shoulder strap of the bag Trott still carried. It held his skin and if Smith wanted to, he could steal it, indenture Trott to his service and have a permanent slave, as long as he kept the selkie skin by his side.

But there was never any fun in forcing someone to obey. The real trick was convincing them that they wanted it.

And, oh, Smith was going to do _so_ much convincing.

The messenger bag clunked to the floor with the heavy weight of the thick selkie skin. Smith attacked Trott's shirt next, nearly tearing it in his haste to pull it up and off. Trott growled and slipped it past his head himself, tossing it next to his bag. He was a skinny thing, all pale skin and lean torso. Smith would've thought he would be heavier built for swimming in the cold ocean, but he wouldn't complain either way.

He pawed at Trott's chest and kissed down his neck, tasting seawater again. Trott's skin was slightly chilled despite the hot summer, carrying the ocean's temperature under the human guise. Smith licked along his pulse point and nipped carefully, testing the skin with his teeth. One hand found a nipple and twisted it gently, thumbing across it.

Trott groaned and wiggled under him, grasping at Smith's shoulders. He tore at the leather jacket, and Smith paused long enough in his manhandling to shuck it off, revealing the cheap band shirt he'd pulled off one of his victims a few short months ago. It was a size too small and an ugly shade of green, but no one looked at his clothes when he lured them to his car.

Smith bent down to attack Trott's neck again, and was stopped. Trott put a hand over his throat and tilted his head back, leaning up to lick his chin. “I thought the eating was figurative,” he said, his other hand touching his own neck, where light bruises were already blooming.

“What can I say, mate? You taste good.” Smith pulled from Trott's hold and rested his hands over Trott's hips, tugging him close to slot their hips together. Trott was half hard again and Smith didn't doubt he could make him _painfully_ hard in less than a minute.

He put a hand over Trott's ribs and kissed him again, biting his bottom lip. “Bed or floor, pick your poison,” he mumbled, and regretted not giving them the option to push Trott into the wall and fuck him hard from behind.

Trott grabbed his hips and yanked them backwards. “You _paid_ for a bed, we might as well use it,” he said, his hands lingering over Smith's thighs as he sat on the mattress.

“ _Someone_ paid for a bed,” Smith corrected, patting his pants pocket where he kept his wallet.

Trott frowned at him and rolled his eyes. “Come on, before I rip your fucking dick off for taking too long. I wanna see your special kelpie seduction.”

“Gonna rip my dick off?” Smith put his knees on the bed and settled over Trott's lap. “Gonna grab and twist it a bit, mate? Keep going until you can't fucking stand it anymore?”

Trott, too short to kiss Smith while Smith straddled him, instead grabbed his ass and brought a leg up behind Smith, pushing him forward and tipping them both over the bed. Trott laughed and thrust his hips, rubbing their crotches together. “I dunno, mate,” he said. “I haven't seen anything worth grabbing yet.”

Smith growled, sitting up and yanking his shirt off. He heard a stitch rip but he tossed it on the floor anyway and immediately undid his jeans. He groaned, his cock twitching with the new freedom, but he couldn't do more than unzip his fly before Trott had him again. Two hands snatched his wrists and pulled him down. Trott's lips found his neck, biting down harshly.

It wasn't like the seductions, when Smith found the most appealing pretty thing and lured them into the dark recesses of his car. Those were fast, desperate, fucking them into submission before he devoured them. His prey was always soft and quiet, begging him for release, and then, for death.

This was desperate, but Smith didn't feel the need to hurry, and Trott certainly wasn't _begging_ for anything. His nails scratched up Smith's back and his legs locked around his hips, holding him down so Trott could grind aggressively. Smith groaned. His cock pushed against his boxers, rubbed hard on denim still clinging to Trott's hips. He buried his nose in Trott's neck and smelled the seawater there, along with sweat. Trott kept biting his shoulder, dragging his teeth down Smith's neck in tandem with his nails, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck this,” Trott spat, and moved his hands to shove at Smith's chest. Chuckling, Smith sat up. Trott undid his pants, yanking them down. Smith hoisted his legs off Trott's lap to give him room, running his eyes up and down as denim and underwear were kicked to the floor.

Trott was thin in his legs as well as his torso, but the hair on his legs was thick and dark. His cock stood at attention, and Trott sighed in relief, his head falling back on the mattress and one hand coming up to fondle himself.

“Well if you're gonna do that, I might as well not be here,” Smith said, pulling off his own pants. They stuck to him with the slightest bit of moisture, fresh water clinging around his skin in the anticipation of a kill. His own fault, really, for fucking his prey. His body associated arousal with killing and he was always soaked in filthy lake water when he jerked off.

Trott turned his head, a gleam in his eye. He sat up and rushed forward. Smith could barely flinch, and Trott grabbed him again, curling his hands under Smith's thighs and throwing him sideways.

“What the fuck!” Smith spat, now sprawled on his back. Trott beamed above him.

“Oh, don't complain, you're still gonna fuck something,” he said, sitting on Smith's hips and leaning forward so their cocks brushed against each other. Trott met his eyes. “I just want to be the one in charge.”

“Fuck you,” Smith started, but Trott grabbed both their dicks in a tight grip. Smith hissed and tossed his head back. “Unfair.”

“Completely fair. You should have set the rules up ahead of time. What kind of _faerie_ are you?” Trott squeezed a couple times and thumbed the head of Smith's cock, playing with the bead of precome there. “Half expected you to have a horse's dick.”

Smith's eyes went wide and he burst out laughing, his chest shaking with mirth. “Come _on_ , mate,” he said, gathering his breath and looking at Trott. “I'm better at glamours than _that_.”

Trott shrugged, sitting up to lean over the side of the bed. “I don't do kink shame. Whatever gets your rocks off. But I'm glad I don't have to fuck horse dick.” He was reaching for something that Smith couldn't see, and when he sat back up, he had a bottle of lube in his hand.

Smith's brow furrowed. “Was that in your pocket?”

Trott grinned. “Always be prepared, right?”

Snorting, Smith reached for it, but Trott held the bottle away, flipping the cap and tipping it over to coat his own fingers. “Just sit back and relax, sunshine.”

It was hard to relax when his cock was hard and he wanted some _action_ already, but Smith sat up on his elbows and watched Trott lube his fingers, bringing his hand back to push it in. “Fuck,” he spat, shivering.

“Been too long?” Smith asked, putting both hands on Trott's thighs to steady him. Trott bit his lip and nodded. Smith couldn't see what he was doing, but he knew when Trott hit his own prostate, his hips jumping, breath catching in his throat.

Smith eyed the bottle of lube on the bed and grabbed it. Trott watched with clouded eyes, his focus on the fingers inside him. He didn't stop Smith when he coated his own fingers and sat up more, reaching behind Trott. He found where Trott was fucking himself and touched his entrance, pushing in.

“Mother _fucker_!” Trott nearly fell over, knees clenching to dig into Smith's sides. “Too many!” he growled, pulling himself off Smith and his own hand.

Smith flashed his teeth. “Just trying to move things along.”

Trott glared and sat back, pinning Smith by the haunches. “Fine then.”

The next sound that Smith heard was a rolling wave of whines, a wail that rocked down his spine and stung his eardrums. He cried out, clamping his hands over his ears. Smith tried to move away from it, still pinned by Trott, and kicked his legs. Trott fell to the other side of the bed and Smith scrambled away, falling over the edge of the bed.

The wailing stopped, replaced by laughs. Smith groaned and looked up at the bed. Trott peeked over the edge, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“You're a fucking arsehole,” Smith said, shaking his head. The siren song felt like it had pierced his throat and the oddness of it made him swallow a few times. “What'd you do that for?”

“For trying to fist me,” Trott said, still giggling. “Not my fault you're the only one who hates my song, mate.”

“It's like a whale's dying prayer to the heavens, christ.” Smith blinked a few times and sat up, lips pursed. “I never thought I'd hear a boner killer like _that_.”

“Come off it.” Trott patted the space where Smith had been lying. “Don't shove three fingers in me when I'm already on the job and I won't do it again.”

Smith rolled his eyes and climbed back on the bed, moving slow and watching Trott's lips. They only quirked up, the smile reaching his eyes, and Smith settled against the headboard. “I demand you make it up to me for that atrocity.” He gestured to his dick. “Look at this, mate, you scared it silly and now it won't fuck anything, much less that pretty ass of yours.”

Trott snorted and crawled back into Smith's lap. “I'll fix that, then.”

He was quick to bend down and grab Smith's cock, kissing the shaft. Smith's breath hitched. He put both hands on the sheets, grasping. Trott stuck his tongue out and gave the head a long, slow lick. He made a face, and looked at Smith. “Smells like filthy lake water, mate.”

“It does _not_ , you prick. Either suck me or let's get on with the fucking.”

A squeeze around his cock had Smith's teeth clenched, a pale shiver of pleasure thrumming in his groin. Trott licked the head again and fumbled for the lube with his other hand, tipping it over Smith's shaft and jerking him slowly while he focused on tonguing the head.

It wasn't often that Smith let his victims give him a blowie, and only when they were particularly insistent. It was easier to focus on _their_ pleasure, to make them a melting mess before he took them. And not enough of them were good at blowjobs to warrant the fuss anyway.

Trott _was_ good, though, squeezing and rubbing his cock while he licked and sucked at the top. He didn't try to suck it down, unwilling to swallow the lube spread liberally on his fingers and the rest of Smith's dick. Instead he teased at the slit and pushed his tongue hard on the head, gliding slick lips over the surface.

Smith wriggled beneath him, his skin slicking with more lake water. He was more than hard enough for a fucking but not willing to let Trott go quite yet. The decision was made for him, however, when Trott pulled off a few minutes later and leaned off the side of the bed, snatching his pants. Smith watched, panting. Trott came up again with a condom in hand and grabbed the lube again. “Ready, sunshine?” he asked, holding them both up.

“Fuck, yeah.”

Trott grinned and unwrapped the condom, sliding it down Smith's cock. He tilted more lube on his hand, slicking Smith’s cock over the condom, and climbed higher onto his lap. Smith's hands went instinctively to Trott's hips, clamping down tight. Trott arched an eyebrow at him. “I'm not going anywhere,” he said, laughing.

Smith flashed his teeth. “Force of habit, mate. You're just as pretty as any other prey I bring to bed.”

“So flattering.” Trott braced his hands on Smith's shoulders and sat up, reaching with one hand to press Smith's cock to his entrance. He hissed and spread his legs wider, lowering himself.

Smith's hands tightened and he threw his head back, fighting the urge to buck up. Trott wasn't like his prey, he couldn't take him hard and fast once he'd got inside him. Trott would kick him from the bed, or worse, start up the damn siren song again.

He dug his toes into the sheets and buried his nails in Trott's skin. “Fuck,” he said, looking at Trott, whose cheeks were flushed, eyes unfocused as he slowly pushed himself down on Smith's cock. Flush with Smith's hips, Trott looked up and smiled. “Feeling good, there?”

“Hell fucking yes.” Smith brought his legs up, bracing Trott's back, and ran his hands over his ribs. “It _must_ have been a while since you got laid, you're tight as shit.”

“Not _literal_ shit, I hope.” Trott pressed into Smith's touch, humming as the fingers danced up his chest and moved to his throat, cupping his jaw.

Smith pulled him in for a hard kiss, holding Trott's face in both hands for a moment. He quickly dropped one to grab Trott's ass, thrusting up as he shoved Trott down. Trott hummed and squeezed around him, moving up a few inches and falling back down. The heat and pressure made Smith groan, biting at Trott's lips.

They were both dripping with sweat by now, and the slide of Trott bouncing on his dick was punctured by desperate grasps and voiceless panting. Smith tried to get a grip on Trott's thighs, but it only made it harder for Trott to move on him, and he settled to grabbing his ass again, scratching nails down the small of Trott's back and digging them into meaty flesh.

He tried to tease at Trott's entrance, rubbing a finger where it stretched around his cock. Trott's head snapped up and he growled, the beginnings of rough noises like metal grinding on concrete falling from his lips. Smith moved his hand back to Trott's hips, pouting.

“It's not fair,” he said, not quite as angry as he'd intended. “I'm _helping_ you.”

“You aren't helping by wrecking my arse,” Trott said, curling one hand in Smith's hair and tugging. “ _I'm_ on top, so I'm in control.”

Smith sneered, grabbing Trott's cock where it was bouncing between them. Trott's breath hitched, eyes falling closed, as Smith rubbed over the head and spread his precome around. “Seems like I'm the one in control,” Smith said, “seeing as I've got my dick up your arse.”

Trott glared and put both hands back on Smith's shoulders, and _shoved_. Smith's head smacked into the headboard and he yelled. Trott's knees clamped around his hips, and suddenly he was moving a lot faster, rising up and slamming himself back down on Smith's cock. Smith gritted his teeth, hands flailing to get a good grip on Trott. He couldn't hold his legs while Trott bounced on him, and he settled for putting his hands over Trott's hips, keeping a loose hold.

Between bounces Trott ground down, squeezing tight, encouraging Smith to gasp and moan. He ran his hands over Smith's chest and pinched his nipples, laughing at the growl he got for it. Trott met his eyes and leaned down, pushing his own cock into Smith's stomach and letting the cock inside him drag slowly.

He keened and thrust hard into Smith, biting his lip. Smith ran a hand through his hair and pushed up at the same angle. Trott groaned, eyes fluttering closed. “That's so fucking good, holy shit,” he said, trying to get Smith to press on his prostate again.

Smith got an elbow underneath him and sat up, holding Trott to his chest with his other hand. “How about I take over from here, mate. You look like you're gonna come any second.”

Trott's eyes narrowed, but he let Smith hold his thighs, shifting to sit up again and lift himself, sighing when he sunk back down. Smith met his thrusts and groaned again. Trott was squeezing him and clawing at his skin, lips parted and hair sticking to his face with his sweat. Smith did his best to pull Trott down at an angle, watching until he saw the jerk of Trott's hips and heard the satisfied sigh of pleasure. Trott leaned into his neck, scraping his teeth across Smith's throat.

Heat coiled in Smith's groin and his throat tightened, like he couldn't get enough air, drowning in the hot pulse of blood in his veins and the hard press of Trott's teeth. He clamped both hands on Trott's hips and thrust hard, yanking Trott down to meet him, and came with a loud cry. Water dripped off his skin and soaked the bed, his hold on Trott faltering with the sudden flood of moisture. Smith hissed and fell back, hands falling at his side.

“Oi,” Trott said, panting hard but still managing to sound cross. He patted Smith's face and Smith looked up, frowning. “I still got a problem here,” Trott said, leaning down to rub his cock over Smith's stomach. “I’m so glad you fuckin wet yourself but I’ve still got a fucking hard on.”

“Fucking– get off and come here,” Smith said, his words slightly slurred. Trott obeyed, pulling his cock out and hissing at the feeling. He was kind enough to pull the condom off, standing briefly and looking for the trashcan. He didn't find it fast enough, apparently, shrugging as he chucked it to a random spot on the floor.

Trott knelt on the bed, his cock bouncing, and raised an eyebrow at Smith. “Well?”

Smith shifted and rolled to the other side of the bed. Trott sat down and Smith grabbed his arm, urging him down to lay on his side. The bed squished, sopping wet with filthy lake water. Smith grimaced and did his best to ignore it, reaching down and cupping Trott's balls.

Trott groaned and bit his lip, hips moving into Smith's touch. “Please,” he said, lifting his right leg to spread himself and give Smith better access.

“Only for you, _sunshine_ ,” Smith mocked, grinning, and slid his hand to Trott's cock. He thumbed the head and squeezed idly, reaching for the discarded bottle of lube with his other hand. It was at the end of the bed, and he had to kick it up with his foot until he could reach it. Smith poured it on Trott's cock and started sliding his hand over it in a tight fist, playing with the head and squeezing tight at the base.

Trott thrust into his hand, his breath stuttering. Smith moved his hand faster and pushed his thumb into the underside of his shaft. Only now, looking down at it, did he realize how cute Trott’s cock was. He’d never been particularly inclined to think that about someone he dragged to bed.

Trott gasped, eyes closed and hands tangling in the sheets. His come spurted out and spilled over Smith's fingers, dripping down in rivulets.

Smith frowned and pulled his hand away, letting Trott catch his breath. He leaned on his elbow and reached over Trott to the nightstand, grabbing one of the tissues in the complimentary box and sitting back to wipe his hand clean. No matter how much he loved sex and enjoyed sharing physical pleasure, semen would never cease to be slimy and disgusting. It was like the algae that infested his favorite lakes.

Settling on the pillows, Smith glanced at Trott. “Told you I'd get you laid, mate.”

Trott glanced at him and took another moment to breathe, turning to lie on his back. He rubbed a hand over his face, the other playing idly with his cock. “Do you do that with your victims?” he asked, looking at Smith. “Fuck them over and then fuck them up?”

Smith barked out a laugh and shook his head. “I don't usually let them participate that much, unless they're feisty. I like them docile.”

Trott snorted. “I'm anything but docile, mate. You shoulda let me have my pick from the club.”

Rolling his eyes, Smith said, “As if you would have picked _anyone_ up from that club. You're a roar when you get going, but fuck were you timid in that fucking place. I've never seen anyone so scared out of their minds by teenagers and dark lighting.”

“Everyone there was over the drinking age,” Trott pointed out.

It was Smith's turn to snort. “Mate, if you think there weren't at least a dozen under-agers there looking to pay too much money for shitty cocktails, you need to get out more.”

Trott hummed and turned to stare at the ceiling, resting his hands on his stomach. Smith did the same, letting them stay quiet for a few minutes.

“You know,” Trott said, licking his lips, “you don't _need_ to be out to kill whenever you get laid.”

Smith arched an eyebrow, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Trott agreed. “I mean, if you ever wanted to have sex without, you know, having to hunt down the easiest catch, well . . . I'd be up for it.”

Smith laughed again, shaking his head and sitting up on his elbows to look down at Trott. “What,” he asked, “do you want my phone number or something? Because, news flash, a guy like me doesn't keep more than a month-long burner in his pocket.”

Trott glared. “Fuck you,” he spat. “I didn't say you _had_ to.”

Smith giggled, still watching Trott. After a minute, he said, “I suppose, if you were to keep going to that beach, I could be convinced to meet you there. If I felt like it.”

A sharp noise pierced his ears and Smith yelped, falling down on the bed. The sound vanished and Trott was laughing at him, the skin around his eyes crinkled in his delight. “It's a deal, mate,” he said, and laughed again. Smith groaned and pulled a pillow over his head, as if he could block out the sounds of that awful fucking siren song.


End file.
